A World Without War
by Lady WhiteHaven
Summary: A traumatic event causes Carter to wonder if the war is worth fighting. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own _Hogan's Heroes_; I only wish I did. There is no point in suing me, because I all of my money went towards textbooks.

Constructive criticism is welcome, and I don't mind flames, so long as they're creative. Thanks to Suzanne of Dragon's Breath for the beta and the title.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

"Herr Kommandant, all prisoners present and accounted for." For once the statement was true. The week had been quiet for the prisoners due to the presence of the SS in the area. No one was sure why they were there; they certainly had not informed Klink of their motives, but Colonel Hogan ordered all sabotage and espionage activities suspended. Taking chances with the SS was just too dangerous.

The men of barracks two fidgeted, stamping on the packed snow of the compound as they waited for the ritual to end so they could return to the relative warmth of the building behind them. Even Colonel Klink must have been chilled, for he wasted no time on his usual bluster.

Finally, Klink voiced the anticipated command, "Dismissed." The prisoners turned to reenter the barracks, then stopped as one. The sound of airplanes, German and American, drew every man's eyes to the sky.

"Back, back, back! Everybody back into the barracks!" Shultz clucked as he tried to herd the POWs back inside. His efforts came to naught as the prisoners just ignored him as usual and continued to watch the sky.

One German fighter managed to lure one of the Allied bombers out of formation and shot it down. Moments later, four parachutes dotted the sky, illuminated by the flames of their plane as it crashed in the German forest.

Kommandant Klink straightened and looked his American counterpart in the eye. "This just proves that Germany will win the war," he boasted. "Your planes drop like flies fighting the illustrious luftwaft."

"Maybe this time, Kommandant," the American colonel shot back. "But there's a beach in France that says otherwise."

The German officer was silent, though the prisoners howled with laughter; the remark had hit a nerve. He remembered the day that beach was taken. How could he forget? It had taken weeks to clean up the mess. He was surprised he managed to escape with his skin intact, let alone his command. He made the only reply that let him save face, "Dismissed."

For once, the prisoners obeyed the order with alacrity, especially Colonel Hogan. His grin vanished the instant he crossed the threshold, and he turned to face his staff.

"Are we going to rescuer the bomber crew, _mon Colonel_?" LeBeau asked.

"We shouldn't," he replied. "The woods are lousy with Krauts."

"But we're going to anyway, aren't we, guv'nr?" Newkirk added.

"But we're going to anyway. Any volunteers? I'd go myself, but I'm due to talk to London. They aren't happy about our little vacation." No one spoke. "Newkirk."

"Sir?"

"Thank you for volunteering. Take Carter and Olsen and go out the emergency tunnel."

It took very little time for the three men to change into their black saboteurs' clothing, but they didn't have much choice but to hurry. Their need to stay outside for roll call had delayed their rescue attempt, so they had very little time to beat the patrols to the downed fliers.

Wraithlike, they moved through the sparse undergrowth as quickly as stealth permitted. All three had been part of the operation for years and had plenty of experience moving undetected through the forest. They were silent, ghosts, mist. Almost. All three froze as Carter missed seeing a stick under the snow, and so stepped on it with a loud crack.

For all of his Sioux heritage, Sergeant Andrew "Little Deer Who Goes Swift and Sure Through Forest" Carter was anything but swift and sure. He cringed at the harsh glare Newkirk aimed in his direction, happy that looks couldn't kill.

When they were certain they hadn't been detected, the men resumed their trek at a slower pace. Though it did have the fringe benefit of making it less likely for Carter to step on another stick, the real motivation was they were approaching the area were the fliers should have landed. If patrols were anywhere, they'd be here.

Moments later, another crack shattered the stillness, and Olsen and Newkirk both turned to glare at Carter. "It wasn't me," he whispered hotly.

Newkirk opened his mouth to reply, but the words died on his lips as the sound was heard again. It hadn't been a twig after all. It was a … gunshot? He moved in the direction of the sound, flanked by Olsen and Carter

As they moved closer to the site, they could hear laughter. Cold, cruel, mocking laughter. All too soon, they reached the source. As one, they crouched in the bushes to watch. The downed fliers had been found, but not by a normal patrol.

In their years as guests of the Germans, the men of Stalag 13 learned that the SS rivaled the Gestapo for atrocities. However, academic knowledge did not make the observation easier to bear.

Flashlights illuminated the appalling tableau. Carter focused on the SS to delay taking in the rest of the scene for as long as he could. There were about twenty of them, all armed, and from what Carter could see, a captain was in command. He seemed cold and cruel, and there was a light in his eyes that wasn't entirely sane.

The SS soldiers laughed at the man in front of them, an American major judging by the uniform. He struggled frantically with his captors, trying desperately to escape, but to no avail. The goons holding his arms only laughed off his attempts and forced him to his knees next to a dark spot.

Carter tried to see what the dark area was; there shouldn't be a shadow there. It was the smell he recognized first, the cold, metallic tang of blood and death. Looking closer, he identified three bodies lying in the dark. What he had mistaken for shadow was actually the dark red stain of Allied blood. It was all Carter could do to keep from crying out in horror.

A sudden movement brought Carter's attention back to the captain. He had drawn his sidearm and aimed squarely at the still struggling American major's forehead.

Carter glanced at Newkirk, who shrugged sadly. Both men realized there was nothing they could do. The three of them could never hope to defeat so many people.

They turned back in time to see the Nazi's finger tighten on the trigger. A fourth shot disturbed the night, and blood spattered on the formerly pristine snow behind the major.

Carter gasped. Unfortunately, the Germans heard the sound, and every eye—and gun—turned towards the American sergeant.

The POWs did not wait to see if the SS would consider the sound a potential threat. Newkirk laid down covering fire, the all three beat a hasty retreat.

Within moments the Germans returned fire. Most of their shots missed. One didn't.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I only own the plot.

Author's note: First, thanks to everyone who reviewed. This chapter is mostly a transition/introduction, but my next will begin the actual story. I hope this is readable, the document manager kept eating my punctuation. Also, I'm afraid updates will be sporadic. The amount of time I have to write will depend on how sadistic my professors decide to be.

Thanks again to Suzanne of Dragon's Breath for the betaing grammar and medical issues. Any continuity/characterization errors are mine.

* * *

**Chapter 2**

Carter shivered as he opened the door to the tunnel hidden inside a tree stump. He was certain it was getting colder, but it might only have been that the scene he had just witnessed chilled him inside. How someone could be so cruel to fellow human beings he would never understand. Sure, people killed in war, even his bombs had been responsible for some deaths, but the airmen had surrendered!

A light touch on his shoulder returned Carter to the real world. He helped the wounded Olsen climb into the tunnel then followed, closing the door behind them. The two men began the walk towards Barracks Two and their CO, but they were met by Colonel Hogan and Corporal Lebeau before they had walked more than twenty feet into the tunnel.

It took Hogan very little time to process the scene before him. He saw the bloody streak on Olsen's left sleeve, which was covered by his other hand, and the dazed expression on Carter's face. A quick gesture sent the diminutive corporal beside him after the camp medic. "Where's Newkirk?" he asked the two new arrivals.

"He's drawing the pursuit, sir," Olsen said quietly. "He told Sergeant Carter to make sure I got back safely while he led the SS away from Stalag 13."

The three men continued to walk towards Barracks Two. "And the parachuters?"

"Dead, sir. The SS found them before we did. They executed them. The fliers had surrendered, and the bastards _shot_ them. We saw the last execution."

"And you?"

"The bullet barely grazed me, sir. I'll be all right. I think the bleeding has mostly stopped."

"You should still have the medic look at it. I can debrief Carter now." Olsen removed his hand from his arm long enough to salute, and followed the path Lebeau had taken minutes earlier towards Barracks Eight and the medic.

Hogan led the stunned and silent Sergeant to the radio room, where he had a brief conversation with Kinch. Once certain the underground was apprised of the night's events, Hogan and Carter climbed the ladder into Barracks Two, and went straight to Hogan's office.

Hogan spent the better part of an hour going over the events of the evening. It took ten minutes and several false starts to get the younger man to speak. Even then, Carter paused frequently, usually at a particularly gruesome moment. By the end of the narrative, Hogan was obviously troubled by the events, and seeing his CO affected helped Carter get a handle on his own grief. When they finished, the Colonel sent him to bed.

"But, sir! Newkirk isn't back yet, and—"

"To bed, Little Deer," Hogan interrupted. "Roll call is in four hours, and you need the rest. You can't help Newkirk by staying up."

"But aren't you even going to go out and look for him?" Andrew asked, unable to believe that the Colonel would abandon one of his men.

"I can't," Hogan told him gently.

"But why not?"

"It wouldn't help. The SS have shown that they are willing to shoot enemies on sight. If they catch him, we can only hope they want to question him at their headquarters, so we can bluff our way in to take custody of him. Any one who leaves the camp probably won't find him, and even if he did, two people would be in the same situation that one is now. The underground is monitoring the activities at the SS HQ, but that's the most we can do for now. Bed, Sergeant"

"Yes, sir."

Hogan watched as the dejected young man made his way to his bunk. He felt worse than Carter about leaving Newkirk to fend for himself, after all, Hogan had been the one who sent them on the mission in the first place, and felt guilty that he wasn't out there sharing the risks. Hogan hated feeling helpless, especially when the life of one his men was at stake, but everything he told Carter was true. Sending anyone else out would only endanger more lives. He sighed as sought his own bed. He might even be tired enough to sleep.

Andrew was no more able to sleep than his CO. He lay in the dark, staring at the underside of the bed above him, and his thoughts inevitably turned to the events of the night.

_I hate war, _he thought. _Nothing good ever comes out of it, just death and destruction. Those parachuters never asked to be shot down--and they surrendered--and the SS _murdered_ them! Then Olsen was shot, and now Newkirk is missing. He could be dead. All three of us could have been killed! _It was the first time he let himself think that, the first time he actually believed in his own mortality. He had known it academically, he was fighting a war after all, but this was the first time he came close to dying himself. This was even worse than the times the Gestapo had nearly discovered the operation; at least then Hogan could talk his way out of it.

Eventually, his exhaustion overcame his worries and he drifted off to sleep.

::You really wish the war had never begun?:: a deep voice asked him.

Carter opened his eyes. He did not see the underside of the bunk above him; he didn't see the barracks at all! He was standing somewhere, and he could see nothing but thick, dark fog. He spun in a circle, looking for the speaker, but no one was there. Hesitantly, he said, "Um…yes."

::Why?:: The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

Andrew again tried to locate the source of the voice, with out luck. "Because nothing good ever comes out of it!" he answered. He was no longer hesitant, though the disembodied voice still unnerved him. "The SS goons killed those airmen! They could have just taken then prisoner; Stalag 13 was only a mile away! Then they shot Olsen, and Newkirk is still missing!"

::That is only one instance.::

"One of many! We're all away from home, we risk our lives, we kill people, and people die everyday. I hate war!"

::You honestly think the world have been better had war never been declared?::

"Yes!"

::If you are certain.::


	3. Lebeau

Disclaimer: If you recognize someone, chances are I don't own him. The stranger an the plot are mine.

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**Chapter 3**

With those words the fog began to dissipate, and Andrew Carter stood alone in the center of a barren field. There had been grass there once, but thousands of boots had long since churned it into mud. There were no trees to break up the harsh landscape, and no animals, either predator or prey. The gray, overcast sky did nothing to detract from the oppressiveness of the scene, and a more desolate place could not be imagined.

"Where am I?" Carter asked aloud, although he did not really expect an answer.

:This is France.:

Carter jumped. There was a man standing beside him, and he was quite certain no one had been there a moment ago. He had learned a few things about sneaking up on people from his Indian relatives, and he was sure not even the best of them would have managed in this situation. Then he took a second look at the newcomer and went slack jawed in shock.

The stranger was obviously a full-blooded Native American. The eagle feather braided into his hair showed he was a warrior, and the patterns sewn on his buckskin clothing showed he was Sioux. The clothing itself was remarkable, for it was not the type Andrew and his family wore to powwows, it wasn't even close. The buckskins were antiques, probably dating back to before the Europeans landed in America. They even had porcupine quill embroidery, a technique that had been ignored in favor of the beads and other adornments the whites made available.

"Why am I here?"

:You wished the war had never begun. This is that world.:

Carter heard the steady drone of a car engine and looked for the source. A shiny black car appeared on the horizon and drove closer, following the two parallel ruts that served as a road. He stared in horror at the car's only decoration—two familiar red flags that flew from posts on the front.

"You said there was no war here!" an outraged Carter cried.

:There was none.:

"Then what is a Nazi staff car doing in France?"

:The Nazis control France: Carter was too stunned to reply. :Surely you didn't think Hitler and the rest of the Nazis would abandon their lust for power? That is an intrinsic part of their personalities.:

"But you said there was no war!"

:Again, I say there was none. England and France did not want to fight, as neither had completely recovered from the last. As in your world, they ignored Germany's acquisition of Austria and Czechoslovakia; however they continued to ignore the German conquest of Poland. Before long Germany controlled Norway, Denmark, and Luxemburg as well.

:The British and French inactivity seemed justified. The Germans kept their acquisitions for about a year, taking measures to integrate the populations into Germany. It was not difficult. Most of the conquered nations suffered during the Great War, and the Nazis improved the economy and the standard of living. They also united the people against a common enemy: the Jews. Within a year Germany had a huge army, staffed by the conquered people.:

"Surely people must have argued, must have fought it!"

:Some tried. All attempts to resist were crushed.:

"But France?"

:There had been no aggressive moves from Germany in months. The French believed Hitler to be satisfied, and their army was ill equipped and undersupplied. In May of 1941 the German Army crossed the French border. By July, the country had surrendered. Very few shots had been fired.:

It took a full minute for Andrew to register what the stranger had said, and another before he was able to string a coherent sentence together. "Louis wouldn't have been happy about that!"

:Indeed, he was not. That is why we are here.: The stranger began to walk away from the makeshift road, and Carter followed.

He stopped about a mile away, and Andrew saw an opening in one of the slight rises in the ground, an opening that a person almost had to know was there if he wanted to find it. The stranger motioned for Carter to enter.

With a shrug, Andrew dropped to his stomach to slither into the cave. The entrance was small; he barely fit. The first thing he noticed when he got his head and shoulders in was the stench. He was familiar with the smell of unwashed bodies; the Germans didn't let their POWs shower as often as they would like, but this was worse. The cave smelled as though the occupants had not bathed for some time, and if they were members of some sort of resistance, they probably hadn't.

The cave itself was small and was lit by a single lantern. As his eyes began to adjust to the dim light, the sergeant was able to see more. He froze. The cave wasn't empty. Four men huddled around something that was spread on the ground. They were filthy, and their clothing was more hole than cloth, but they cheered Andrew considerably, for each had a French flag prominently displayed on his clothing. One was obviously agitated about something, for he let loose a rapid stream of French and turned to look at one of his companions. In doing so his face caught the light. The man was Lebeau.

:Don't just lie there. Get in here.: Somehow the stranger had already entered the cave.

"But how?" Andrew whispered, scrambling inside.

:They cannot hear you. You are not truly present.:

Forgetting where he was, Carter tried to stand, and promptly banged his head on the roof of the cave. "Ow!" he yelped, then he froze in alarm. The stranger leveled an exasperated look at him, but none of the other men so much as twitched. Carter smiled sheepishly and went to see what the Frenchmen were looking at.

There was a map spread on the ground, and all four men were huddled around it. A filthy finger traced a line on the paper, and Andrew silently wished he knew what they were saying.

:You need only ask.: The men still spoke French, but suddenly Andrew could understand them.

"_We will hit the convoy at dawn,_" one of them said

"_Agreed. For France!_" said another.

"_For France!_" the others echoed.

…

Long before dawn the resistance fighters were at the ambush site and making yet another check of their equipment. They did not have much, only a handgun and a rifle apiece, and those were looted from the Germans, but they were meticulous in their preparations.

The site itself did not offer much concealment. The road, which Andrew assumed the convoy would follow, traced a line down the hill on Andrew's right until it reached the bed of a wide creek, at which point it turned to follow. Sparse vegetation dotted the surrounding countryside, and four of those bushes hid saboteurs.

Andrew was rather discouraged by his invisibility. He might have needed it, but that meant he was unable to talk to any of the Frenchmen. Frankly, he was bored. Listening to the planning had been interesting, even if the result was nothing like one of the Colonel's plans, but once they went to sleep there was nothing to do. The stranger had vanished-literally-sometime during the plotting, and Andrew found that whatever else "not truly here" might mean, it did mean sleep was unnecessary. Rather discouraged, he sat against a tree and waited for the convoy to approach.

It was a long wait, but none of the saboteurs showed any sign of impatience. Soon after the sun cleared the horizon, the men heard the unmistakable drone of the approaching trucks. Although they had been hidden for over an hour, the Frenchmen did not rush their plan. They waited until the convoy had reached the designated point, then they fired as one.

They did not wait to see the result of their efforts; their first priority was to survive. They were not afraid to give their lives for their country, but the dead could not fight for France. However, Carter had an advantage the others lacked. Being invisible was useful in this instance, and he stayed to observe the results of the mission.

Four shots had been fired; all of which were aimed at the lead truck. Only two hit, but they caused a disproportional amount of damage. One bullet thudded uselessly into the door of the truck, but the other entered the window and grazed the back of the driver's head. It was not a mortal wound; it wasn't even particularly serious, but the driver took his hands off the wheel and grabbed the wound by reflex, as well as removing his feet from the pedals. These actions would not have mattered had the truck not been going down hill.

The slope was not very steep, but combined with the weight of supplies in the truck, the speed the truck had been traveling, and the obliviousness of the driver, the result was inevitable. The truck picked up speed until it ran off the road and crashed into the creek below. The driver was killed instantly.

The rest of the convoy stopped, and Andrew watched in horror as German soldiers and dogs climbed out of the trucks. The Frenchmen were not the only people able to lay an ambush.

The convoys and other military activities in the area had been hit much too often to be the result coincidence, and the Germans planned to end the sabotage—permanently.

Frantically, Carter ran after the resistance fighters, trying desperately to reach them before the Germans did. He was not certain of what he would do if he managed to catch up; after all, they could neither hear nor see him, but he owed it to his friend to try.

…

The surroundings could not have been more different than the scene in the clearing the night before. Instead of the cold winter night, the day was bright and warm with out a cloud in the sky. Even the uniforms were different, the dark green of the Wermacht rather than the black of the SS. Unfortunately, one thing was unchanged. Again, Carter would be helpless to watch men who he would most likely have called friends be killed in front of him.

The Frenchmen did not give their lives cheaply; their efforts to escape had been valiant, if futile. They had left the scene of the ambush unscathed, but the dogs had led the soldiers right to their cave. Six of the Germans had been killed in the attempt to remove the saboteurs, but in the end the soldiers won.

Soon afterwards the surviving soldiers stood on the plain in front of the cave, the wounded resistance fighters trapped among them.

Carter could not bear to watch, but turning his back did not block the sounds of the proceedings. He listened as two shots were fired about a minute apart. He assumed the executioner mover to Lebeau next, because the fiery corporal's voice was loud in the otherwise silent morning. Even with his new ability to understand the language, he only caught about every third word in the furious tirade. The words he did know the meaning of made him quite certain he did not want to understand the rest.

All too soon the flood of words ended abruptly with a bullet. Tears leaked out from Andrew's closed eyes as he whispered one word: "No."

When Carter opened his eyes again, the gruesome scene had disappeared and he was again standing in the fog. The stranger stood in front of him. "Why did he have to die?" Andrew asked quietly, his grief evident by the tears on his face.

The warrior's face was stern as he replied. :Because of who and what he was. He saw the realities of Nazi occupation much more clearly than his government, and he was unable to live with the knowledge of what the Nazis would do to his beloved France. He was much more fortunate than many of the other resistance fighters.:

"But he died!"

:As did many others, eventually. Hitler's _Nacht und Nebel_ decree authorized the military to make resistance fighters disappear into the "night and fog". Mostly these men were shipped in secret to Germany and were interrogated. The few survivors were thrown in concentration camps.:

"You said yourself that Louis had to fight. Maybe someone who didn't would have an easier time!" The young American was clearly grasping at straws, but the stranger seemed willing to humor him.

:Very well. We will explore that next.:

* * *

Beta's note: Attention lynch mobs: Lady WhiteHaven's location will be put up on ebay if any one is interested…

Author's notes: You'll get yours, Dragon's Breath. I was going to thank Suzanne for the beta, but now…

_Nacht und Nebel_ was a real decree passed September 7, 1941.

Anyway, I am not Native American, nor do I mean to offend anyone who is. Most of my information came from etext dot lib dot Virginia dot edu/toc/modeng/public/MclMyth dot html as well as www dot angelfire dot com/ct/deerwhorns/stories dot html and Mercedes Lackey's novel Sacred Ground. I couldn't find as much information as I would have liked to, so if anyone knows of any good sites, I would appreciate it.

I do realize that I played fast and loose with the beginning of WWII, but www dot historyplace dot com/worldwar2/timeline/ww2time dot htm

Thanks, everyone who reviewed. I'm finally at the part that's fun to write, as the length will attest. I've turned in shorter papers. I'm trying to post once a week or so.


	4. Newkirk

Disclaimer: I don't own Hogan's Heroes, no matter how much I wish I did.

Author's notes: I added a few paragraphs to the previous chapter. No matter how hard I tried, they just wouldn't fit here. I'm sorry this took so long. My professors must have realized that I said a week, so they piled on homework, projects, and tests. Added to that was a major family crisis of the minor variety, so I haven't had much time to write recently. Thanks as always to Suzanne of Dragon's Breath for the beta.

Chapter 4: Newkirk

The fog began to dissipate, and revealed not the bloody field that Andrew expected, but a crowded, bustling cityscape. The sky was dark, but judging by the number of people still on the street it was still early. Carter recognized London from his brief stay in the city before he was transferred to an airbase, but there were a few major differences from the war-torn city he remembered: there were no burned out buildings, no craters in the streets, in short, there were no signs that the city had been subjected to the blitz.

His joy at seeing the city unscathed was short lived, however. He soon noticed a second difference. The last time he had been in London, people didn't wear red armbands or swastikas. _Maybe it's not that bad of a trade,_ he thought to himself. _At least they're alive._

As Carter followed the warrior along the crowded street he noticed something odd. The Londoners walked right past the pair, even brushing against them on occasion, yet never noticed them. If the two Sioux were truly invisible, the Londoners should have walked right through them, but they didn't. It was as though the pedestrians did see them, yet did not notice anything wrong.

And that was just weird. Andrew might have been able to escape notice in his sergeant's uniform, still dirty from the night he spent in the cave, but he was willing to bet that six-foot tall Sioux warriors in buckskins and war paint did not usually walk the streets of London. "How come…" he started to ask.

:This is our destination: They stood in front of a rather run-down theater. As they walked calmly past the ticket booth, Carter noticed that most of the patrons were equally shabby, and the American took a moment to wonder why the stranger wanted to see a show.

They took seats at the rear. They had just missed the start of a magic act, but that was no great loss. The magician wasn't bad, but most of his tricks were slight of hand, and he lacked the polish that even Malcolm Flood had shown during is brief stay at Stalag 13.

A few tricks later, Andrew realized the magician was familiar—Peter Newkirk. Andrew had never seen his friend in this situation, so he sat back to watch the show. All too soon, Newkirk bowed himself offstage among half-hearted applause. Moments later, the stranger rose to leave. Andrew followed at a trot.

"Um, where are we going?"

:There is something you need to see backstage.: The stranger proceeded to lead Carter through the maze of corridors before stopping in front of a door. He gestured for Carter to enter.

Tentatively, Andrew turned the knob, fervently hoping the room was empty, or at least that the invisibility thing was still working. The room was occupied, but only by a single man sitting at an old battered desk writing in a book of some sort. He paused when he saw the door open, but only shrugged slightly and returned his attention to his desk. The man didn't even seem to notice the door click shut.

The rest of the room resembled what Andrew expected a theater office to look like. The walls were covered with old posters and playbills advertising a multitude of acts. The wood floor was scarred, and the old filing cabinet tin the corner seemed equally battered.

Carter turned toward the stranger to ask why exactly he had to see this, but there was only empty space. The warrior had vanished again.

After a moment, the door opened and Newkirk stormed in. He must have come almost directly from his performance, for he had only done an indifferent job of washing of his stage makeup, and he still wore his costume.

"What do you mean you're cutting my pay?" he asked angrily.

"Newkirk, face the facts. Your act isn't that good. Plus, they raised the taxes again. I can't afford to pay you more."

"I can barely afford to live on what you pay me now!"

"If you don't like it, take your act somewhere else. You're lucky I'm keeping you around at all." He matched Newkirk glare for glare. Newkirk looked away first.

"Fine!" With a final glare, he turned and stomped out of the small office, rage showing in his every movement. Andrew followed him.

The Englander didn't bother changing into street clothes before he left the theater, all the while muttering about the theater, the manager, and the Germans. None of it was complimentary. He continued to roam the still crowded streets, seemingly at random, until Carter was completely lost.

About the time Andrew was ready to swear left was right (or was it up?), Newkirk entered a seedy looking pub with a sign proclaiming it to be The Bear's Den. The smoky room wasn't crowded; there were maybe a dozen people inside. They were all of a type: hard, expressionless faces, strictly controlled movements, and shabby clothing. With a start, Carter realized that Peter fit in perfectly. Even his magician's costume did not seem too out of place.

Newkirk made a beeline for the bar, and the bartender handed him a glass with out him needing to ask. Drink in hand, he headed over to a table in the corner, joining the four occupants with a nod of greeting.

"If it isn't 'light fingers' Newkirk," said a black haired man in a strong Irish accent. "And you didn't even stop to change? Were you that anxious to see us?"

Newkirk snorted. "Hardly. I was that anxious to get out of there. The _guv'nr_"—the contempt in his voice clearly made the title an insult—"is cutting my wages again. Claims they're raising the taxes or something, and I'm not good enough to be paid more. It's enough to drive a man barmy, it is. Of course he can't cut his own pay!"

"Surprised, mate?" another asked, his eyes flashing in anger. "There may not even be a tax, he just wants an excuse to line his own pockets, or the government does. That's what the governments do, whether they're the king or the Nazis."

"Careful, Greene," broke in a third. "You're talking treason."

"Why, James," Greene retorted with an angelic expression on his rugged face, "are you telling me you're a member of the Gestapo?" At this, all five men burst into laughter. They could obviously not think of a person less likely to be a Gestapo agent.

"Seriously," said the Irishman when the laughter subsided. "We don't have to worry about the Gestapo here. There is no one here we don't recognize at least by sight, and no one is close enough to overhear anything we say. Besides, with the so-called 'freedom fighters' in the countryside, I doubt the Gestapo agents are listening in pubs for treasonous talk."

"Too right," Newkirk agreed. "Besides, there are plenty of better pubs."

"But none with quite the same clientele," said the fourth man, who had been silent until that point. "And speaking of the uniqueness of the patrons here, how do you plan to live, Newkirk? The usual method of making up the pay difference, I assume?"

"Of course. I lifted a few wallets on my way over here, but if any of you have anything bigger planned, I'm game. I'll need the money."

Andrew looked at him in shock. He certainly hadn't realized Peter had been picking pockets on his way from the theater. In a way, that was understandable, for he'd had no reason to suspect the Englander. Certainly none of the people Newkirk had relieved of the possessions at Stalag 13 had noticed anything, and they had reason to be suspicious.

However, that was the least of the American's confusion. At the Stalag, Newkirk used his talents to help the operation. Sure, he'd frisk new prisoners or even steal a German officer's medals, but he never hurt anyone with his thefts, and he didn't steal for personal gain. Here he was casually discussing taking money from random strangers as though there was nothing wrong with it. And these people he was drinking with were obviously criminals!

:Surely this does not surprise you: said a familiar voice. :Where did you think he learned the talents you utilized at Stalag 13? Certainly he did not learn to open safes for his magic act.:

"But he's hurting people."

:This is the Newkirk from before he joined the military and before he met Colonel Hogan. He does not see his activities as harmful to others. He is simply trying to survive.: With a final glance at where Newkirk and the others were discussing larceny, the stranger made an abrupt gesture with one of his hands, and the pub began to fade, only to be replaced by fog. :I believe you've seen enough.:

"At least Newkirk is still alive," Andrew said. He was grasping at straws to put this in a positive light, and he was well aware of the fact.

:This is not much of a life. He is struggling to make enough money in order to live and must use illegal means to do so. He still does not thrive. He will continue on this path until he is caught with his hand in a pocket or inside the wrong house. At that time he will be imprisoned or killed.:

"Greene said it was the same before the Nazis. Newkirk was the same with the king in power," Andrew retorted.

:But he would not have remained the same. The operation at Stalag 13 made him realize that other people mattered. He changed from the pessimistic, immoral person you saw here to a person who would send you ahead while he distracted the pursuit in hope that you might survive.:

"Alive and selfish is better than dead and noble!"

:Is it really:

Carter said nothing. What could he say? But his silence did not mean consent.

:You are still not convinced. If you desire another example of someone who meant no harm to the Nazis, I will show you one.:


	5. Kinch

Disclaimer: The plot, the stranger, Laura, and Kyle are mine. The rest are not. Well, technically most of the Nazis are mine too, but I don't want them.

Author's notes: There are ideas/attitudes in this chapter that I do not personally agree with. I don't mean to offend anyone, but Nazis just aren't P.C. That said, I'm sorry this took so long, but classes and homework eat up a large chunk of my time. (And LJ Groundwater, as much as I would be delighted to kill certain professors, I think the school administration would frown on that.) Thanks as always to Suzanne of Dragon's Breath for the beta.

* * *

**Chapter 5**

When the fog dissipated this time, a rather different scene was revealed. The place was urban, but that was all it had in common with the streets of London. To put it nicely, it was rather run-down. Carter was not so kind. "This place looks like a garbage dump! Heck, even Stalag 13 is nicer than this place!"

The description was not misplaced, for the street did resemble a crowded version of the Stalag's compound. Large, crude, wooden buildings lined both sides of the narrow street. The buildings themselves were tall enough to block the late evening sun, but the shade did not make the August air any cooler.

Although Andrew was certain anyone sane would have been trying to find a way to keep cool, many people were on the street. Some were grocery shopping at the occasional vendor, some were repairing the buildings, and none were idle. Even the children were working rather than playing.

He took a second look. The people all had certain characteristics in common. All wore clothing that was patched and worn, even the children. Andrew was no stranger to hand-me-downs, but even his thrifty family would have consigned those clothes to the rag bin months before. All had the pinched look of people that did not have quite enough to eat that Carter had come to recognize during his years as a POW. And all of them were black.

Andrew turned to look at the stranger. "Kinch?" he asked dully. He wasn't certain he wanted to know. Not if this neighborhood was any indication.

The stranger nodded. :Detroit, 1955.:

"Let me guess. The Nazis invaded and nobody cares."

:Not quite. After the Nazis gained control of the British Empire, its economy and the economies of its colonies began to recover. In the United States, President Roosevelt's New Deal programs disintegrated after his death. When the American people saw the improvements in Canada's economy, the Nazi party began to grow. By 1950 they had quite a few representatives in congress, most of them American born. Then in 1952, Nazi party member Michael Jones was elected president.:

"Didn't they realize what the Nazis do? The concentration camps, the executions…"

The stranger cut him off. :The improved economy, theincreased foreign trade, and food on the table. They realized they would be able to eat. The Nazi party utilized one of the same techniques as Hitler during his rise to power. They placed the blame for the depression on the Jews and those of African descent. They united the population against a common enemy. Most people were happy with the choice of scapegoat, particularly a group called the Ku Klux Klan. Many found their way into the ranks of America's version of the SS.:

"What about the Jews? Are there concentration camps in the U.S.?"

Not as of 1955. At this point, both groups have been relegated to a position of second-class citizen. The government created laws that gradually increased segregation. There was already a basis in the Jim Crow laws. Before long laws required both African-Americans and Jews to live in ghettoes set aside for them.:

A loud crash drew moth men's attention to the street around them. Carter did not know exactly what had caused the commotion, but it did show just how high the racial tension was running. Two young white men, obviously looking for trouble, had forced a confrontation with one of the residents of the quarter. Again, Andrew didn't know the cause, but the end result was obvious. The two would-be toughs threw a teenager into a fruit stand, then they walked away, not even stopping to see if their victim was hurt or to offer to fix the damage they caused the stand.

"Isn't anyone going to stop them?" Andrew asked, horrified that while some of the residents paused in their shopping to help the teen to his feet, none offered even token resistance to the two swaggering arrogantly away.

:They have no reason to. The authorities will not care, and the residents might even be fined for detaining the boys.:

"What!"

:Little Deer Who Goes Swift and Sure Through Forest, listen to me. These people live in this slum because of the color of their skin, not because they choose to. A government that cared about their well-being would not require them to live in this hovel. If the police were called, and they would be more like the Gestapo that those you are accustomed to, and if they decided to respond, they would be more likely to arrest the victims for being a nuisance.:

"What about the Bill of Rights? It's supposed to stop people from being arrested like that."

:Some would argue that it does not apply to African-Americans. Others would not care that it exists at all.:

Andrew said nothing as several passers-by helped the stand owner right his cart and salvage what fruit he could. _It's just not right,_ he thought.

Silently, the stranger walked towards one of the buildings. As he and Carter climbed the narrow, rickety staircase, the sergeant couldn't help but notice the slight similarity to Stalag 13. When they entered one of the apartments, the resemblance was no longer slight. They could have been in Colonel Hogan's office, except the Colonel had better furniture. The room was small and cramped with a mattress covered by moth-eaten blankets on the floor in the corner.

There were two people in the room. The first, a woman Andrew guessed to be about ten years older than himself, was bending over a rough stove. The other was a boy of about three years, and he sat near his mother playing with a much-loved teddy bear.

:Laura and Kyle Kinchloe.: At Carter's puzzled look the stranger explained:Kinch's wife and son.:

Any further queries Andrew might have made were preempted by the opening of the door behind him. His jaw dropped as an exhausted and grimy Kinch walked in. He looked as though he'd tunneled for hours and then had had to dig himself out of a cave in.

The woman looked up and smiled. "Jim," she said. "How was your day?"

"Long," he replied and stretched his arms over his head. The muscles that had been impressive even at Stalag 13 bulged under his worn shirt. Kinch had obviously not been idle. He sank to the floor, and Kyle crawled over and began to regale his father with stories of what they had done that day.

Dinner did not take long to complete, but the portions were smaller than Andrew expected. Surprisingly, he found he wasn't hungry, so he tuned out the sounds of the diners in order to question the stranger. "Kinch doesn't look so bad; he has a family. He's just so tired. Why is that?"

:He spent a hard day at heavy labor.:

"But he's smart. He said he worked at a phone company, and I think he was a plumber's assistant once. Why isn't he working a job like that?"

Had it been a part of his nature, the stranger would have sighed in exasperation. The young man was determined not to understand. :He is not permitted to. Unskilled labor is all that is available to him.:

Andrew intended to question the stranger further, but stopped in surprise when the light went out. He looked around frantically (but pointlessly, as the room was pitch black) trying to figure out what had happened.

:It is late. They are attempting to sleep.:

Carter's panic subsided and he was glad the darkness hid his embarrassed flush. "Umm, yeah. I knew that."

Minutes passed and Andrew grew impatient. "Why are we standing here in the dark?"

:You wished to see what would happen to one who did not fight, yet upheld the law. Thus, we are here.:

"I'm not trying to be rude, but there isn't much to see right now."

:There will be.:

Tired of standing still, Andrew tried to pace. Tried, because before he took two steps his foot hit something. He wasn't certain what it was, but he thought it was a pot. It certainly sounded like one. He winced at the noise.

A soft voice came from the direction of the bed. "Jim, what was that?"

"Probably the neighbors," he answered groggily. "Go back to sleep."

:Stand still: the stranger scolded. If Andrew hadn't known better, he would have been sure the stranger was getting rather irritated. :If you haven't noticed, you can still move things here. You do not want to awaken them.: Andrew blushed scarlet.

Several minutes passed before he dared speak again. "Is whatever it is going to happen soon?" he asked hopefully. Just standing in the dark was getting boring.

:In approximately two hours.:

A pause. "Can't you do that thing with the fog and make it happen sooner?"

:Surely: and the voice was definitely irritated now:you have learned patience working with your chemicals and as a saboteur.:

"I was never very good at that part," he responded. When he realized the stranger did not intend to reply, he added, "So, can you?"

:No.:

The hours passed in silence. Every so often Carter would open his mouth to ask a question, but would then reconsider and close it again. As bored as he was just standing in the dark, he wanted to get visible again, and the stranger was the only one that he knew of that could do that. Making him mad probably was not the best solution. About the time he thought he would go crazy if he had to stand still another moment, he heard something.

Five years ago he would not have recognized it, but five years ago he had not been part of the army. Three years ago the sound would not have alarmed him, but that was before spent time as an unwilling guest of the Germans. Now the loud bang of a door being slammed open followed by the heavy pounding of booted feet on a wooden floor signaled the arrival of enemies. He heard it every time the Germans thought the Stalag 13 inmates were hiding something.

The Kinch in whose apartment Andrew was standing had never fought in a war and had never been imprisoned in Stalag 13. Carter would have been willing to bet Newkirk that this Kinch would not recognize the sound.

He would have lost.

At the first bang of the door he heard a frightened Laura whisper, "Oh, Jim, not again," and Kinch had turned on the light before the boots made it to the stairs.

Andrew was still trying to adjust his vision to the sudden brightness when the apartment door slammed open. At least he thought he was. He could not possibly have seen what he thought he saw. That was just impossible. He rubbed his closed eyes with his hands, willing them to show a different scene when he reopened them. It didn't work.

The Kinchloes stood against the wall, still in their nightclothes, while one of the men covered them with a rifle. Two others ransacked the small apartment on the pretext of searching for something. Andrew felt like he had had the wind knocked out of him. The intruders were not wearing Gestapo or SS uniforms. They were not even regular German military. They wore the uniforms of the Detroit Police.

Kinch watched impassively as they destroyed his home. It was the same face Andrew had seen him show dozens of Gestapo raids. He didn't even flinch as the men tired of overturning the few furnishings and began to throw the covers off the bed, slashing the exposed mattress. No one spoke as the mattress stuffing flew about the room. Then, one of the men lifted the child's stuffed bear.

The boy was smart. He knew exactly what the men planned to do to his beloved toy. "No!" he shrieked as he ran to grab it. When he got close, the police officer holding it casually tossed it to his companion and equally casually smacked the toddler across the face. Kyle fell backwards crying with blood coming from his mouth and nose.

Instantly Kinch's face turned from blank to enraged. Hands clenched into fists, he started to stalk across the room towards the man who hurt his son, obviously intending to cause harm. He ignored his wife's attempts to hold him back until all three of the police officers leveled their guns at him.

He froze, hands still in fists, rage warring with his instinct for self-preservation. Finally, with another glance at his son, he relaxed, his face blank once more.

Once certain he was no longer a threat, the intruders relaxed. Sneering, one walked calmly up to Kinch and slammed the butt of his rifle into Kinch's stomach. Breathless, Kinch fell to the floor. Then, as all three men walked out, kicking Kinch as they passed. One took the time to spit on the floor before he exited the apartment.

Andrew turned to the stranger in horror. "How could?" He fell silent, unable to find words to continue.

The stranger shook his head, and the fog surrounded them once more. :Convinced yet, young warrior:

"Colonel Hogan!" Andrew said desperately. "We haven't visited him yet! The Colonel isn't a criminal, or Negro, and he always has a plan! He should be okay!"

:Very well. We shall visit Washington D.C. next.:


	6. Hogan

Disclaimer: I own the stranger. I do not own Carter, Hogan, or Stalag 13. The Nazis are up for grabs.

Author's note: This is what results from reading _Fahrenheit 451_ and_ Brave New World_ in a single weekend. I don't recommend doing so. Those books should not be mixed.

Again, I do not necessarily agree with all the opinions expressed in this chapter. I do not mean to offend anyone, but as I said before, Nazis are not politically correct.

On a brighter note, it only took me three weeks to update. Okay, so I had to procrastinate some other things, but who needs sleep?

Thanks as always to everyone who reviewed and to Suzanne of Dragon's Breath for the beta.

Chapter 6 

The scene revealed when the fog cleared gave Carter a powerful sense of deja vu. The sights, the sounds, the smells all recalled a host of memories. Some of those memories were positive; he would never forget the camaraderie he shared with the other members of his squadron, but that feeling was often overshadowed by the loss he felt when one of his friends did not return from a bombing run.

However, like London, there were differences between this airbase and the one in his memories that, while subtle, became apparent at a second glance. These buildings were strong and built to last, and the base itself lacked craters and debris from the enemy's bombs. The air was warmer than he remembered, and the planes—the planes!

These were not the B-29s and other aircraft he was used to seeing. These were cargo planes, not bombers, but they seemed…unfinished.

:Of course those are not the aircraft to which you are accustomed. The B-29s were developed and bought by the military's wartime budget. Many technological advances were made during the war. Its lack set back the aerospace industry alone by years. As a result, the aircraft you see are less efficient than those in use during even the early years of the war.:

"Where are we?" Andrew asked, but his mind was not on the question. He couldn't help but watch the men around him.

:We are currently on an army air base just outside of Washington D.C., and the date is July 18, 1957.:

Andrew said nothing as he continued to watch the crew of a nearby plane. He couldn't help but think of the men he was stationed with in England. How many were still alive? Did they know he had survived being shot down? One, Corporal Weber, had passed through Stalag 13 on his way back to England, but he was under orders not to mention the underground to anyone, let alone Stalag 13. He couldn't tell anyone Andrew survived; he might not have even returned to the same base.

Carter was abruptly jerked out of his introspection by the sight of the stranger half way across the field. As he rushed to catch up, he noticed another difference between this base and the one he remembered. The easy camaraderie was missing. He was surrounded by men, yet none were joking and laughing as he and his friends had so often. Even at Stalag 13 they had found reasons to laugh, even if it was at his own expense sometimes. And that was in wartime. If these people couldn't find reason to laugh when they were not at risk of dying, how bleak must their lives be?

Having returned to his previous introspective state, Andrew once again failed to notice that the stranger had stopped, so he nearly ran into him. After a sheepish apology, he noticed that they stood in front of a door bearing the label "General Norton, Base Commander." Silently, the stranger opened the door and slipped inside. Carter followed somewhat less gracefully.

It wasn't Carter's fault he had spent almost three years in a prison camp where the buildings were not exactly made of the finest materials available. It wasn't his fault that he was used to doors that were often harder to close than open. It certainly wasn't his fault that the army provided its generals with office doors that tended to want to be shut. Therefore, he shouldn't be blamed for the fact that the heavy, metal door slammed shut after he entered.

Both of the room's occupants looked up at the loud noise, and the sergeant's heart nearly stopped. Luckily for Andrew, both men seemed to shrug and continued their discussion.

"I agree that he's a fine officer, but promoting him could be dangerous," said the man seated behind the antique wooden desk. He wore his white hair cropped short and had a star on his collar. Carter guessed that this was General Norton.

"With all due respect, General, not promoting the man could be dangerous," returned the other man. He was slightly younger than the first and wore the insignia of a full colonel. "He inspires incredible loyalty in the men under his command."

"Loyal to him or to the country, Colonel. I won't deny he's charismatic as hell, but we can't afford to have officers building empires. If he's slightly dangerous as a major, he could do a great deal of damage as a lieutenant colonel, especially at this base. Or do I need to remind you how close to Washington D.C. we are?"

"He has an excellent record. His squadron is almost always the most efficient…"

The General cut him off. "Look at his political record, Colonel. He was one of the loudest supporters of that idiotic movement a few years ago to let Negroes into the military. Now he's against that bill in congress that will let the army police the ghettos. What's worse, some of his men are starting to agree with him. I don't care how good his service record is; the man is politically unreliable."

"Again, General, with all due respect, noting that in his file could keep him from ever being promoted."

"Is there a reason you are so concerned about him, Stewart? Do you share his beliefs, perhaps?"

"I do not, sir," said the colonel quietly, obviously offended by the general's statement. "I merely believe that he is too good an officer to have his career ruined because of his misguided notions. His charisma could be a great asset for us if he was be converted."

The general smiled thinly, though no trace of it reached his eyes. "In that case, I'm putting the matter in your hands. If you can convert him, good. But I will not promote him until I'm sure he's not a threat."

In a corner of the lavishly furnished room, Carter was puzzled. He did not recognize either man, by name or by sight. He assumed that the conversation he just witnessed was the reason he was in the office, but he could not understand why. He originally thought the stranger brought him here to see Colonel Hogan; it was an airbase, and the colonel had been in the army before the war began.

He couldn't understand how that conversation related to Hogan. Hogan was a colonel. Even if he was promoted quickly because of his actions in the war, this was 1957. He'd had nearly a decade to make up the rank. "Who are they talking about?" Andrew asked the stranger.

:Patience, Little Deer who Goes Swift and Sure Through Forest. You shall find out for yourself about: he paused for a moment:now.: Immediately, the sound of someone pounding the door filled the office.

The person on the other side of the door slammed it open without waiting for an invitation. A major stalked in, obviously irate. He looked young, despite gray hair among the black at his temples and slight crows feet at his brown eyes. He would have been considered handsome, had he not been so furious. Andrew's jaw dropped. He knew that man.

"Speak of the devil," the general said quietly to himself. He was somewhat less than pleased about being interrupted. "I assume you have a problem, Major Hogan?"

"Sir," Hogan began, barely able to keep his temper in check, "one of my men, a Sergeant Lukas McKenna, was listed as AWOL."

"Surely, Major, you realize I have a base to run. I was aware of his desertion. Is there a reason you are personally bothering me with this?"

Even Carter could see the flare in Hogan's eyes as his temper almost got the better of him. His hands clenched into fists at his sides and his face determinedly blank, Hogan explained. "McKenna is a loyal soldier. He has been under my command for nearly a year. I cannot believe he would desert."

"And you want me to do something about it?"

"If possible, sir."

The general turned to Colonel Stewart. "It looks like you have a lot of work to do. Dismissed."

Both junior officers saluted him and left the office. Once out in the hallway, Hogan turned to Colonel Stewart. "Sir, what did he mean, 'You have a lot of work to do?'" He was not calming any.

"I am supposed to convince you to change your attitude."

"My attitude, sir? I just want to know where one of my men is!"

At the major's outburst, Colonel Stewart dragged the younger man into his office, trying to prevent people from overhearing. Andrew barely got through to door before it closed.

"Your attitude, Major. To start, I would advise you to drop the subject of McKenna. He is AWOL, presumed deserted."

"I take care of my men, _sir_," Hogan hissed, his tone making the honorific an insult. "I will be dammed if-" he was cut off.

"Major Hogan, you will be considerably more than dammed if you do not." The colonel's tone was matter of fact, which only made his words more effective. "Two men were declared AWOL last night. Your Sergeant McKenna had a 'friend' in another squadron."

"So what? He's a dammed good soldier!"

"There is no place for queers in this man's army." The colonel ignored Hogan's glare and continued in that same, cold tone. "You are an ambitious man, Major. Don't throw away your entire career because of something you cannot change." With those words, Stewart left the office, leaving the seething major behind him.

Carter turned to the stranger. "The colonel is going to come up with a plan to save McKenna, right?" he asked hopefully, but he didn't really believe it. After all, nothing else had turned out the way he wanted it to, but it didn't hurt to hope.

He was startled when the fog closed in around him. "What-" he began to ask.

:You asked a question. Here is the answer.:

The fog vanished again, leaving the two Sioux standing in another office. This one was not decorated as nicely, nor was it as large. In fact, if not for the figure hunched over a battered desk, Carter would have thought the small, windowless room was a closet.

Carter took another look at the man. He wasn't surprised to recognize his CO. Time had not been kind to Hogan. He still wore his clusters—he must not have become a nazi, then, Carter thought in relief—the bands of gray at his temple had widened, and he had added reading glasses.

After minutes of watching the man in front of him fill out form after form, Andrew turned to the stranger for an explanation.

:The year is 1961. Colonel Stewart was correct in labeling Hogan as ambitious. He managed to restrain himself from an outburst that would end his career and his life, but he could not entirely hide his feelings. General Norton did indicate in his file that Major Hogan was politically unreliable, which ended any chance he had for promotion. When his resentment started to spread to his subordinates, he was relieved of command and given a post where he could not contaminate the minds of his subordinates.:

Carter returned to watching the man who, in another world, would have been his commanding officer. A sense of familiarity nagged at him. It took another minute to figure out what was familiar.

Kommandant Klink.

The young sergeant could not see Hogan ever groveling before senior officers as Klink was wont to do, but he was still a basically good man caught between a rock and a hard place. Hogan's nature would not permit him to commit suicide by actively opposing the Nazis, but he could not collaborate with them either.

Sadly, Carter turned to the stranger. "I'm ready to go," he said.

As the fog once again enclosed them, the stranger replied:We have one final destination.:


	7. Carter

Okay, I'm really sorry this took so long; all I can say in my defense is that finals were torture. But they're done, I can think in words again, and here is the next chapter.

I can't believe I didn't get any flames for the last chapter. If I had done that in Harry Potter, people would have flamed this story, all of my other fics, and anything else I write in the next decade. People here are too nice. Or open minded. Or something. I guess I'll have to do something particularly nasty to Carter to make up for it.

Thanks as always to Suzanne of Dragon's Breath for the beta, every one who reviewed, and everyone who remembered that Bullfrog is a suburb of Crab Apple Junction.

Enjoy.

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**Chapter 7-Carter**

Carter looked up at the bustling cityscape that surrounded him. It lacked the obvious age of London, and it didn't have the general disrepair and cramped feeling that characterized the Detroit ghetto, yet it was far from the open countryside he remembered from his pre-army days. He did not understand how anyone could choose to live in an area like this; he wouldn't have been able to stand it for more than a few hours without blowing something up. In fact, many of the gray buildings with their billowing smokestacks looked like what he spent his nights blowing up in Germany.

"Where are we?" he asked hesitantly. He really did not want to see this. After seeing the colonel's fate, Andrew just wanted to curl up for awhile and not think about anything.

:1973.:

Carter was about to object that that was a _when_ not a _where_, but thought better of it. He tried a different question. "Why are we here?"

:It should be educational.:

"Who are we here to see?"

No answer. Not even a simple acknowledgement. "Baker?"

:No. He suffered the same fate as Kinchloe. Both perished over a decade ago in concentration camps.

"Olsen?"

:He is currently a foreman in a factory in Arkansas.:

"Marya? Tiger?"

:Marya is currently living in the Soviet Union, which has yet to succumb to fascism; however, it is only a matter of time. Tiger's fate was very similar to that of Lebeau, only she did not die as quickly.:

"Klink? Shultz?" Carter did not expect either of them to be the correct, but he could not think of anyone else that he had gotten close to in Stalag 13.

:Klink's incompetence got him shot a long time ago, and Shultz died of a heart attack in 1958.:

"Then who?"

:You shall discover the answer in due time.:

As the two men walked, they saw the huge industrial complexes give way to shopping centers and apartment complexes, which in turn gave way to older, smaller homes and stores of the type Andrew remembered from before he joined the army. A few blocks later, he began to realize just how familiar this section of the city was. Although some of the paint colors and signs were different, he could have sworn this was…

He stopped dead in front of one of the small businesses. The storefront itself was nothing special. They had passed many like it on their walk. There was no gaudy window display, no gimmick to draw passers-by inside. No, what had drawn Andrew's attention was the modest blue and white sign above the store reading "The Carter Pharmacy."

"Bullfrog," Andrew whispered in shock.

:Indeed.:

"But it's huge! What happened to the small town? And to the reservation? And the land?"

:With the Nazis, industry grew, often to the detriment of the environment. The Dakotas, Montana, and other northwestern states became popular centers for this industry because of the large quantities of the available space. Factories moved into Crab Apple Junction, which expanded until it absorbed Bullfrog, and was absorbed by Devil's Lake in turn.:

"And the reservation?" Andrew asked, not really wanting an answer.

:We just walked through it.:

"What's wrong with me?" Carter asked sourly. He did not want to watch another tragedy play out. "Is it my Sioux blood? Do I end up like Kinch or Lebeau."

:You shall discover the answer in due time.:

They did not have long to wait. Before five minutes had passed, they saw an older man walking towards them. Carter was not surprised to recognize an aged version of himself.

The elder Carter unlocked the door, and all three men went inside. Although Sergeant Carter did not recognize the store itself, he recognized the type. It was the store he had wanted to own since he worked at one in high school. His mouth quirked in a sad smile as he recognized the irony of the situation. He had managed to achieve his dream in a world where his friends, many of them closer than family, had theirs trampled.

He lost track of how long he stood there, just watching his future self prepare for the day's sales. A bell rang, and both Carters instinctively looked towards the door. The man who entered was dressed neatly in brown slacks and a light green shirt, and his gray hair was cut short. He looked to be about the same age as the elder Carter, and although the sergeant did not recognize him, his older counterpart certainly did.

"Douglass!" came the enthusiastic greeting. "Where have you been, old man?"

"Watch who you're calling 'old man', old man. Don't for get I'm three years younger than you!" Both men laughed at the oft-repeated exchange. "Seriously, I was called out of town at the last minute to repair one of my machines. The factories buy them, but don't bother to use them correctly, so they break." He chuckled dryly. "Keeps me in business anyway. But forget work; did that daughter of yours spawn yet?"

"Not yet. Any day now."

"Daughter? Spawn?" the young American asked in panic, his voice at least an octave higher than normal.

:Did you believe that you remained a childless bachelor? You have three children, two sons and a daughter, as well as five grandchildren.:

"But who'd I marry?"

:Mary Jane.:

Carter was silent. He hadn't thought of Mary Jane in over a year. They'd been childhood sweethearts, and were engaged before she left him while he was at Stalag 13 for an air raid warden. He had been desperate to get home, and most of the people in camp had helped him get over her. He had planned to marry Mary Jane since high school, and he couldn't imagine being anything but happy with her, but he was getting used to the stranger's scenes. Nothing was happy. He didn't want to know, but he had to ask: "Are we happy?"

:You divorced six years ago.:

"Divorced!"

:In this society, it is not socially unacceptable; in fact, it has become quite common.:

"Divorced," Andrew said quietly to himself. "Even if it is common, it's not right. I can't believe that Mary Jane and I—"

The stranger cut him off. :Cannot believe that the woman who, rather than wait five years for you as she promised, sent you a Dear John letter in a prisoner of war camp would commit adultery? You caught her once, when your children were young. She swore she would not repeat the behavior, and, rather than tear your home apart, you chose to believe her. After your children were grown, you caught her again. This time you did not believe her protestations of innocence. A divorce soon followed.:

The young sergeant said nothing. Put that way it seemed reasonable, but he still couldn't believe it. He began to listen to the conversation again, rather than have the stranger surprise him with some detail about his life that he did not want to hear. But then, he didn't really want to listen to the conversation either.

"Did you watch the news last night?" the elder Carter asked Douglass.

"I was traveling. When I parked the car, I barely managed to get to bed. I haven't so much as looked at a newspaper in two days. What's so important?"

"There was a revolt in that camp in Montana. A bunch of Jews killed some of the guards and escaped."

"Were they caught?" Douglass asked, concern coloring his voice.

"And executed," Carter confirmed. "But I can't believe they'd allow something like that to happen in the first place."

"At least they were punished. Maybe the rest won't try anything."

"They're Jews. Who knows what they'll try."

"Good point. It's not like they were ever contributing members of society. They just made life difficult for the rest of us." 1

Andrew Carter the younger turned to the stranger, appalled. He wasn't sure which horrified him more, the fact that Americans approved of concentration camps, or that _he_ was one of those people.

After a moment, he decided that the second was defiantly worse. Concentration camps existed even in his reality, and there were some Americans who didn't disapprove of them, but he wasn't one of them! To be casually talking about and approving of something that he fought against, that his friends died to prevent…

:You are not a bad person, Little-Deer-Who-Goes-Swift-And-Sure-Through-Forest, even in this reality. Just misinformed.

:The government's propaganda machine is practiced at getting citizens to think what the government wants them to, especially in America. The Nazis began sending anti-Semitic messages in the 1930s. With more than four decades of practice and exposure, it would be remarkable if you had opinions counter to those expressed.:

Andrew just looked at him. Over the past few hours—or was it days?—he had seen his friends in horrible situations, but this was the worst. This person he had become didn't care about the people in those situations, and didn't even try to change something that was obviously _wrong_. And that he'd just accept what the government told him without at least thinking about it was beyond comprehension. He might not be the smartest person in the world, but he was quite capable of deciding what was true and what was false, what was moral or immoral. He didn't need the government to tell him. "You win," he said quietly.

The stranger only nodded, satisfied. The familiar fog closed around them again, and Carter's world went dark.

* * *

1. No, I did not make this up. It is adapted from actual Nazi propaganda. My source: www . calvin . edu / academic / cas / gpa / 


	8. Aftermath

Disclaimer: If I owned Hogan's Heroes, I would have a lot more money than I do. Unfortunately, I don't own anything but the plot and the stranger. 

Author's note: Thanks to everyone who reviewed and to Suzanne of Dragon's Breath for the beta.

* * *

**Chapter 8**

Barracks Two was not a pleasant place to be. Everyone was on edge, tempers were short, and _no one_ wanted to cross Colonel Hogan. Despite the late hour, hardly anyone slept, and the prisoners could hear sound of pacing coming from the next room. The reason for the tension was simple: Newkirk had been missing for over 24 hours.

When Carter was awakened by Shultz's calls for roll call, he had had no difficulty remembering his dream—if that is what it had been. As a result, he had been quieter than usual, only going through the motions of being a prisoner. He couldn't help but wonder if Newkirk's current situation, whatever it may be, was better than the life the stranger had showed him.

The other prisoners did not notice Carter's silence, or if they did, they didn't find it abnormal for the situation. A couple of men had nodded to him, but none really said anything.

They had covered for Newkirk at roll call by putting a dummy in Hogan's bottom bunk and telling the Germans he had the flu. This trick had worked before, and they did not want to risk alerting the SS as to who had witnessed the execution the night before. Unlike last time, however, they did not use the record of snoring. It bursting into music at the wrong time once was enough.

The sound of a toe crashing into something large and muffled curses prompted Andrew to cut his mental ramblings short, and he rolled over in his bunk with a sigh. He was having less luck sleeping than he'd had the previous night. However, that could have been as much the fact that there was no maybe-spirit waiting to drag him into slumber as the heightened tension.

He counted his CO's footsteps. Four steps, pause, four more steps. It was hardly soothing—the obvious tension robbed it of that—but it was better than the horrors he saw every time he closed his eyes.

Eventually, the footsteps began to slow, and there were less creaks from the poorly made bunks as the men stopped tossing and started drifting off. When the pacing in the next room was almost silent, and Andrew himself had begun to nod off, someone in the tunnels tapped on the pipe in the signal to open the trapdoor.

In an instant everybody was awake and alert, and Colonel Hogan was beside the bunk that concealed the entrance before anyone else got his feet on the floor.

The _empty_ bunk that concealed the entrance.

Hogan hit the release and Kinch, not Newkirk, climbed up the revealed ladder.

"Message from London," he said, just as worn as the rest of the men. "They haven't heard from or about him, Colonel. They say they've got the other units keeping an eye out for him, but they can't do much with the SS in the area." He paused, obviously reluctant to impart the rest of the message.

"Go on, Kinch," Hogan prompted him.

Quietly, the sergeant continued, "We're to wait another 24 hours. If he doesn't return by this time tomorrow, we're to assume he was captured, and we're to be on the next sub to England."

When Carter saw the expression on the Colonel's face, he was quite certain that he did not want to be the man that gave that order. If Newkirk did not return by the stipulated time, Carter wasn't sure what would happen, but he had a strong suspicion that the fallout would include phrases such as "insubordination," "disobeying orders," and "court marshal."

"Acknowledge the message," Hogan said, his voice rough with tension. "The rest of you get back to bed. We don't want to draw Klink's attention."

The prisoners went back to their bunks, and Carter watched his CO stalk into his room. Moments later he heard a loud crash, as though something small and wooden, such as a stool, had made contact with a wall. He winced.

The oppressive silence continued until even Carter felt himself drifting off. He wanted nothing more than to sleep until Newkirk returned. Unfortunately the universe had other plans.

The door to the barracks slammed open and Klink and Schultz strode in, flipping on the lights. "_Raus_! Everybody up!"

A chorus of groans met the announcement, and Colonel Hogan appeared in the doorway of his office showing all the signs of a man just roused from slumber, though Carter was almost certain that Hogan had gotten no more sleep than he himself had.

"What's going on, _Kommandant_?" the American Colonel asked. "As prisoners of war, we're entitled to a full night's rest. Just check the Geneva Convention." This announcement was not accompanied by the jokes and insults of the prisoners as it would have been any other night, but the Germans did not notice.

"I am not interested in the Geneva Convention, Colonel," Klink replied. "I'm on to your little tricks. Did you think that if I allowed your Corporal Newkirk to miss a few roll calls, he would be able to escape without my noticing? I assure you, Colonel Hogan, it will not work."

Hogan showed no sign that Klink was even near to the truth. "It's not a trick. Newkirk is sick, so I let him use my bottom bunk."

"That is why his bed is empty," Klink gestured towards Kinch's bunk," but why are you still using your room?"

"I do have two bunks," Colonel Hogan stated affably. He put his arm over Klink's shoulders, affecting camaraderie, but in reality steering the older man away from the tunnel entrance. He gestured behind Klink's back for someone to get Kinch as he continued, "You know what it's like being an officer. I'll let one of them join me if he's sick, but I'm not going to bunk with the enlisted men."

Klink nodded in understanding. That this statement was wildly out of character for Hogan to make never occurred to him, probably because he would never have given up his quarters for an enlisted man, and could not believe another officer would do so either. "Then why did he not come out here when you did?"

Hogan, his arm still draped over the other's shoulders, steered Klink towards his office. He cracked open the door and gestured to the shadowed figure on the lower bunk. Then he slapped away the hand reaching for the light. "He's sleeping."

"He can get up." Giving up on the light, he mover towards "Newkirk" with every intention of waking him.

"We think he might be contagious."

Klink froze a foot away from the bunk. "If he is ill, it is probably best not to wake him," Klink said hurriedly.

"Good call, _Kommandant_."

"But he will still be counted at roll calls. Shultz will personally make sure he is there for every one," Klink said, so happy that he was thwarting the too-smart American's escape plans that he failed to notice Kinch climb out of the corner bunk.

Shultz, on the other hand, did not.

"Shultz! What are you staring at?" he asked when he finally noticed his sergeant's eyes bulging.

"_Herr Kommandant_, I-I-I-I" he stuttered, and Klink followed his line of sight, seeing only bunks and prisoners. Nothing out of the ordinary. "I see nothing!" Shultz finally managed to say.

"_Dummkopf_! Come with me," Klink said, striding out of the barracks. Shultz followed, looking over his shoulder at the now-closed tunnel entrance.

The prisoners returned to their beds for the third time that night. The SS was outside the wire, Newkirk was missing, and now Klink was on the warpath. The night couldn't get much worse. That's why, when there was about an hour left until morning roll call, the frantic tapping from below was mostly ignored. Kinch had returned to the radio soon after Klink and Shultz left, and nobody wanted to hear any more bad news.

Carter just rolled over on his bunk, having been roused yet again. He'd be surprised if he had managed to get two hours of sleep.

No one else was in any hurry to open the trapdoor either. With the way their luck was running, London had radioed to confirm that Newkirk was captured and they had to evacuate the camp before dawn.

The taps continued, increasing in both pace and volume, and an American private climbed out of bed to let out whoever was making the noise, hoping to get a few more minutes of sleep.

Once the tunnel entrance was open, however, the prevalent mood in the barracks changed immediately from one of apathy to wild enthusiasm and excitement as a haggard but alive Newkirk climbed up the ladder almost before it finished opening, and was immediately swarmed by the other prisoners. Carter was surprised the barracks guard hadn't burst in the door, demanding to know why the prisoners were causing such a racket.

Colonel Hogan, who had burst into the main room at the first shout of welcome, watched the proceedings with a smile. Eventually he silenced the crowd and asked Newkirk to share what had happened since he split with Carter and Olsen.

"It's like this," the corporal began, his tone indicating that his story was slightly—modified. "I kept shooting at the SS to keep their attention on me, and led them on a merry chase through the countryside. I may have been heading away from camp, but after three years of running around blowing things up I knew the area better than them. It wasn't hard to lose them, then I hid in the ruins of the Adolf Hitler Bridge." He shot Hogan a look that implied there was more to the story, then he continued. "I waited there until dark then made my way back here."

The colonel nodded. "You can give a complete report after roll call. Until then you're officially sick and sleeping on my bottom bunk. Go get cleaned up."

Everyone was still smiling when they filed out into the pre-dawn air. Carter lagged behind the rest and took a long look back at the empty room, much happier to be back than he would have thought a week ago. His friend had returned safely, which would hopefully put Klink in a better mood. Even the SS couldn't stick around forever. _Maybe war is necessary_, he thought as he left the barracks. _I still don't _like _it, but it is better than the alternative_. He closed the door.

As though those thoughts had been a catalyst, a Sioux warrior dressed in archaic regalia stepped away from the corner where he had watched the reunion unnoticed. Slowly, he nodded once in satisfaction and vanished.

"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing."

-Edmund Burke


End file.
